


and mercy mild

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, Dean thinks, is possibly one of the lamest Christmases in his thirty-five year history, and that includes the time he and Sam strung up beer cans as tinsel while intoxicated, and the time when he'd gotten a skin mag from his dad on Christmas morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and mercy mild

This, Dean thinks, is possibly one of the lamest Christmases in his thirty-five year history, and that includes the time he and Sam strung up beer cans as tinsel while intoxicated,  _and_ the time when he'd gotten a skin mag from his dad on Christmas morning. If you would've told him he'd be spending Christmas Eve day at a shitty excuse for a Christmas tree lot with a grouchy half-angel like, five years ago, he probably would've thought it was a distasteful joke.

"Look, Cas," Dean says, sighing when Cas crosses his arms and leans back against the chain-link fence because yes, their idea of a Christmas tree farm is enclosed within a dirt patch of a hundred square yards. "The sooner we pick out a tree, the sooner we can get Sam and Kevin off our backs. Alright?"

Cas glares at him; his narrowed eyes would've been maybe a bit more intimidating if they weren't tearing up with with the cold, and he gives an indignant sniffle. "We have…let's see." Cas ticks off on his fingers. "Metatron, Malachi, Abaddon, Bartholomew,  _and_ an escaped Crowley to worry about, fallen angels and demons are skirmishing all over the earth, and your priority is picking out a pine tree that you can chop down and erect in your living room."

Dean puts in a valiant effort--truly, he does--to keep a neutral expression at the word "erect," which Cas notices instantly and gives him a patented "fuck you" face.

"I thought angels loved Christmas," Dean protests while ignoring Cas' reaction, sizing up the nearest tree with faux scrutiny. "You know, all the harking and hearing on high. Figured you guys were into that thing."

"I always found it frankly overbearing," Cas says with a weary rub of his eyes, like he's talking about tax deductions.

"Yeah, well. Dayenu. Just pick a tree, any tree."

With sullen deliberation, Cas points to what has to be the shittiest, gimpiest-looking tree in the lot.

"Charlie Brown's Christmas twig, really? That's your choice?"

Cas nods wordlessly.

"Well, I like this one," Dean says in an attempt to lighten the mood, because seriously, Cas has been acting like a little bitch ever since he got back to the bunker and it's actually kind of exhausting. Something about the angel grace had made him as grumpy as he always had been, and a Scrooge at that.

Dean stalks with determination over to a tree that's got to be a good seven feet high, well-rounded, feathery needles. "You like this one?"

Cas sighs in a martyred way and pushes himself off the fence, coming over to help examine. "It's certainly robust."

"You're robust," Dean mutters, to which Cas replies dryly, "As are you, recently. I wasn't going to say anything."

Dean self-consciously runs a quick hand over the pouch of his stomach and glares sideways at Cas. So what if he'd been getting a little pudgy lately? Not everyone could be a ferocious carb-monster like Sam. 

"I guess I lost the genetic lottery," Dean says, much more peevishly than he intended.

Cas does sort of a double-take and peers at him more closely at that, much softer. "I like this tree," he says after a few moments of silence, and he bumps gently into Dean's shoulder like he means for it to be an accident. "It's a formidable tree."

"Best one in the lot, probably," Dean agrees grudgingly.

"Definitely the best tree in the lot," Cas says, and he hails the owner so they can buy it.

\---

After considerable bitching about getting the tree on the top of the car ("I swear to God, if there's even  _one scratch--_ ") and a mostly silent ride home, aside from the quiet Christmas carols that Cas had requested on the radio, Dean and Cas walk into a house that looks largely like it's been puked on by Santa's elves.

"What the hell," Dean says, instantly recoiling at the colored lights strung up along the walls, the plastic snowmen and reindeer that adorn various surfaces.

"Dean!" Kevin says, poking his head from around the corner of the living room with a bright expression. He's got tape clumped in his hair and glitter glue on his hands and nose. "Did you get the tree?"

"Yes," Dean says slowly, glancing around. "But I'm considering returning your Christmas gift."

Kevin sulks at him. "Sam and I went to Walmart." And then he pops away, as if that's all the explanation that's required.

"Walmart, no less," Dean says with a low whistle. " _Wow._ "

Dean's sort of terrified to look at the rest of the bunker--even Cas has a slightly concerned, constipated look to him--so he drags Cas outside to help haul in the Christmas tree.

"I still don't see the point of--" Cas huffs, readjusting his grip on the trunk of the tree and grimacing at the sap sticking to his fingers. "--your arcane human traditions. Why celebrate Christ with pagan rituals?"

"Haven't you heard, Cas? That's kind of our style."

The second they get inside, Sam and Kevin are all over them, ordering exactly where they should put the tree, chattering over each other with instructions like, "I'll get the lights and ornaments, just help them get it set up," and it's with great relief that Dean finally sets down the tree in its holder in what's come to be the family room.

Dean glances around the room as Sam unloads up boxes of ornaments from a grocery bag, and you know, it's kind of…nice. They've got a wreath and everything hung up over the fireplace, and five stockings are hung on tiny nails, reading their names and Charlie's in sloppy, cursive glitter glue.

Dean pretends to hate it and struggles to string lights on the tree as Cas curiously explores the rest of the decorations in the bunker, finally returning with a fond smile and a, "It's quite remarkable, your traditions. There are so…many of them. How do you keep up?"

Dean steps back from the tree with a soft puff, clusters of needles showering off the shoulders of his jacket. "Eh, you learn." He turns to glance at Cas with a quick grin. "Wanna help decorate?"

All of that goes over without a hitch--Cas quietly concentrating, Dean sloppily tacking on red ornaments here and there--until it comes time to top the tree.

"You wanna do the honors?" Dean asks, handing him the angel with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, and Cas takes it and stares down at it for a moment, considering with a dark frown, turning the figure in his fingers before his expression clouds over. In the blink of an eye, he lobs the angel at the nearest wall with a loud, sharp crack, and the angel figurine shatters into a multitude of small pieces with the impact.

"Dude, what the hell?"

"What the fuck was that?" Sam yells from the other room.

"Cas broke Christmas."

"Goddammit, Cas," Sam and Kevin answer without missing a beat.

"I'm--I'm sorry," Cas says with a soft, confused frown, as if perplexed by his actions. He raises his voice so he can be heard in the other room. "I don't…I don't know what came over me. I'm very sorry. I'll pay for it--"

"Hey, Cas, seriously. Don't worry about it." Dean claps a hand on his shoulder because he thinks he gets it; he always just  _gets_ Cas, on a weird resonating level that he can't explain. Cas stares at his hand for a moment before meeting Dean's eyes, questioning and sad, and something about Cas' gaze is like one of those hidden underwater currents, where if you linger too long you get caught in a riptide and drown. Dean looks away and quickly removes his hand.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas says quietly, and Dean bites back what he wants to say, everything he wants to say about this stupid Christmas thing; Sam and Kevin struggling to overcompensate, burying themselves in decorations to distract from the atrocities of Gadreel and the angels and everything else. None of them can shake it; it's a looming darkness, a constant shadow cast in the back of their minds. But that's always how it is for Dean, and for Sam.

Dean's still fighting with Sam over Gadreel, and he doesn't know if Sam will forgive him anytime soon. Sure, Sam's putting on an act for Christmas, but it's mainly because this is the first time in probably decades that they've had the chance to properly celebrate. Kevin's miserable. Dean's hurting over Sam, hurting over Cas, as usual, because as soon as all this is over, as soon as Cas isn't obligated to stay, he'll be up and gone again. Most likely by tonight. 

What he wants to say in that silence--but doesn't--is that something about Cas reminds him of the way you can see static electricity in the dark; brief, startling, electrifying.

Gone just as fast.

\---

Sam and Kevin praise the tree much more than they should throughout the rest of the day and then scurry off to wrap gifts for the following morning. Dean bakes cookies in an apron that Charlie bought him that says, "I walked into Mordor and all I got was this shitty apron." He's pretty sure it's custom-made.

Cas lurks over his shoulder, watching with open curiosity until Dean finally slams the batter down and whirls with a, "Cas, can you  _not_  do that?"

"Do what?" Cas asks with a frown, tipping his head slightly sideways, and Dean really, really… _hates_ it when he does that. That stupid head-tilt thing that he does. It's not at all cute or endearing.

"Personal  _space._ "

"I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help," he says with such earnesty that Dean's shoulders slump a bit. He can tell Cas still feels guilty for his behavior at the tree farm, and for breaking the ornament, and as usual, Cas is doing what he can to try and fix shit.

"Just…" Dean waves his hand vaguely and turns back to focus on stirring the batter. "You can make the eggnog."

"How do I do that?"

"Pretty simple." Dean points to the adjacent counter. "There's the eggnog. There's the vodka. Go nuts."

Cas leaves him, mercifully, alone after that.

\---

They argue, as usual, over which Christmas movie to watch that night.

"Dean," Sam says imperiously. " _It's a Wonderful Life_ is a  _classic._ The fact that you haven't seen it is beyond criminal."

"Fuck no we're not watching a three hour boring-ass movie about a guy who wants to kill himself."

Sam takes a deep, forcibly patient breath. "It's  _not_ about--"

"Why can't we just do  _Home Alone?_  Hell, we loved that movie when we were growing up."

"Dean, you only like that movie for the booby traps at the end, and you always fall asleep before then anyway."

"I vote Rudolph," Kevin says from where he's squashed into the other end of the couch. "I watch…" He self-corrects with forced neutrality. "I used to watch it every year with my mom."

There's really nothing they can say to that; they pop in Rudolph and settle on the large couch. Cas is pressed way too close to Dean, as usual, their thighs brushing and their arms jostling, and Dean shifts to squirm away from him because Sam keeps looking over at them with raised, inquisitive eyebrows. Not that he doesn't enjoy Cas being close to him--on the contrary, he--

"I think Rudolph's red nose is thinly disguised Communist propaganda," Kevin pipes up. "After all, it was made in 1960's containment America. Look, see how the Abominable Snowman is drawn to its red light? The Abominable Snowman is representative of China."

They all collectively agree after that that it's time to bust out the eggnog. Of which Dean takes one sip from his cup before choking and gagging.

"Holy  _shit,_ " he splutters as Sam has a similar reaction beside him. " _Shit_ , Cas, how much alcohol did you put into this?"

Cas frowns. "Did you not want me to use the whole bottle? You should've specified."

Sam and Dean both groan.

"Jeez, Cas, you trying to get me wasted or something?" Dean asks with a playful elbow to Cas' ribs, and Cas responds so solemnly, "Maybe," that Dean freezes, heat flooding to his cheeks.

Sam snorts eggnog up his nose and tries very formidably to pretend like he didn't.

"Shut up, bitch," Dean says, his face practically flaming as he downs the rest of his eggnog in one gulp. Sam, eyes watering, half-choking with a third of a cup of eggnog up his nose, is incapable of forming the expected reply.

The rest of the movie is a blur after that; Dean remembers at one point telling Cas to slow down as he quickly knocked back three glasses in a row, Cas informing him with slurred determination that his returned grace had improved his stamina, and he remembers something about the Abominable Snowman getting his teeth yanked out.

The next thing he knows, he's blinking awake into a dark room, illuminated only by the string of Christmas lights on the fireplace and wrapped around the tree. He's still pretty drunk, which he hates--he hates waking up drunk almost as much as he hates waking up hungover--and a quick glance to the right indicates that Sam and Kevin have left.

A sudden, warm movement shifts in his lap, and Dean gives a startled if belated jump.

Cas has his head pillowed on Dean's stomach, his dark hair shucked in different directions and his eyes fluttering in his sleep. Dean vaguely remembers that now--Cas mumbling soft, gooey phrases in Enochian into his shoulder before dropping off with his head on Dean's collarbone, somewhere in the middle of the movie.

Dean would usually shift Cas' head away, would usually squirm around and wake Cas up, but something about this is…

The clock ticks loudly in the silence as Dean stares down sleepily at Cas' head and keeps thinking,  _He was supposed to leave tonight but he didn't._

Softly, tentatively, he cards his hand through Cas' hair, and Cas tilts slightly into his touch, huffing out a hushed but heated sigh of contentment.

He isn't quite sure how many moments pass like this; running a hand through Cas' hair while his friend breathes in deep, almost snoring gulps, but Dean has this sudden, stabbing revelation that this isn't going to last. It's never going to last, because it's  _Cas._ The tug and the draw, that's just how it goes with them. Like it's etched into them.

Dean stirs in resignation, pulling his hand away. He chances a glance at the clock; 2:17 am.

"Merry Christmas, Castiel," he says with a soft, almost humored quirk of his mouth before he gently picks Cas' head up from his lap and resituates it on the couch cushion. Dean stands woodenly, stumbles a bit, and tries to fight the urge not to look back at Cas; he doesn't want that to be the last memory he has of him, curled up in a sleepy, vulnerable ball on the couch, when he knows Cas'll have fucked off to God knows where by the time morning comes.

He's almost back to his room--he's in the doorway, as a matter of fact--when he hears a soft, "Dean," from behind him.

He turns to find Cas a little ways down the hallway; his hair is a mess, his eyes are squinted sleepily, and one of his socks is missing.

"Yeah?" Dean asks just as quietly, not wanting to wake Sam and Kevin.

"I need to leave." He says it like it's an unspoken fact, like it's God's commandment; his head gives a soft bob when he says it, as if affirming it to himself will cement it.

"I know you do, Cas," Dean says, dropping his eyes and ducking into his open bedroom.

"Hold on." Dean turns again to find Cas suddenly in the doorway, standing way too close, a distance so close it aches, like the space between them needs to be crushed somehow. Dean blames it on being drunk that he allows the infringement.

"I wanted--" Cas breathes, then hiccups wetly. "I wanted to say goodbye."

"It's fine, Cas. I know goodbyes aren't really your thing."

"Please." Cas' fingers grip Dean's elbow and tighten, just slightly. "I was awake, when you."

"When I?" Dean prompts, though he already knows with a strange sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Cas fixes him with bleary, entreating eyes. "When you were touching me."

"So what?" Dean says, more with embarrassment for being called out than actual irritation. "I'm drunk and tired, and--"

"Dean," Cas murmurs. "I don't. I don't  _want_ to leave."

"Then don't," Dean replies with a tired shrug. "Do what you want, Cas."

"I  _want_ to stay." Cas seems to struggle for words, as if the simplest of constructions is giving him difficulty. "Here. With you. But I can't."

"There's always a can. Just depends on how willing you are to work for it. But," Dean cuts in when Cas starts to protest, "I get it, okay? I get it. You've got your duty to your brothers and sisters. Trust me; I  _get_ that, Cas. No hard feelings from me, alright?"

Cas bites down on his lip (which is 0% appealing, absolutely 100%  _non-_ appealing, actually) and looks up at the ceiling as if seeking an answer from the heavens--before his eye catches on something and he frowns upward. "There's a plant above your door."

"What?" Dean looks up quickly and finds himself blushing stupidly again when he spots it because--fucking  _seriously,_ Sam?

It was probably Kevin, come to think of it. 

"It's just--" Dean begins, and hates himself for stammering. Fucking alcohol. "It's some stupid prank that Sam played, it doesn't mean--"

"Dean," Cas interrupts, and holy hell, did his voice drop an octave? "I  _know_ what it means."

Dean's voice chokes off.

"It's mistletoe," Cas continues in a matter-of-fact voice, as if reading off baseball stats.

Dean struggles to swallow, his throat suddenly desert-dry. "Er. Yeah. And you--you know humans, with their stupid…ridiculous…" Cas is staring at his mouth. "Traditions."

"I don't know if I'm remembering this particular tradition quite correctly," Cas says absently, still fixated, his eyes flicking up to meet Dean's.

"You're probably not?" Dean suggests in almost a squeak. "It's just; I mean, it's more of a joke, really, it doesn't really mean anything; like when you're under mistletoe you don't actually  _have_ t--"

"Dean," Cas says. "Stop talking."

"Yeah, okay."

Which leaves them to stare at each other, barely blinking, in silence; dangling on the cusp of a breath, suspended, waiting.

"I'm gonna kiss you," Dean blurts. "Now. If that's okay."

Cas nods. "I think that would be wise."

"Okay." After a brief, terrified hesitation, Dean leans forward quickly--too quickly. Their noses collide painfully, and there's a hot stab of embarrassment before he feels Cas' quiet huff of laughter against his cheek.

"Is that really the best you can do?" Cas teases, way too close, practically breathing into Dean's mouth. "Perhaps you've been overtalked."

Dean steels his hands to either side of Cas' face, anchoring him there, before he kisses him with fierce determination, and something about it is both unremarkable and a revelation, like this is something they've always done and something they should've been doing long ago; Cas breathes hitched, whimpering gasps in the places where they part and Dean finds himself drawing him in until they're wound together; Cas' mouth tastes like something sweet or maybe sinister and Dean has his hands twisted in Cas' hair, and Cas' left hand is raised tentatively to stroke along Dean's jaw, and in degrees they fall apart, fall together.

"Stay," Dean gasps when they come up for air, into the spaces stitched between them. "Please  _stay._ "

"Yes," Cas breathes, and pulls himself in. "Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from a verse of "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing."


End file.
